


Writing the Lyrics Together

by sushisama



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Humanstuck, M/M, Rating may go up, References to Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sushisama/pseuds/sushisama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tavros has just moved into his tiny apartment as he starts graduate school.  He thinks his life is going to be full of nothing but studying.  That is, until he finds interest in the strange guitarist on the street corner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing the Lyrics Together

**Author's Note:**

> I have actually been working on this FOREVER. Oddly enough, I got the inspiration for this from the song Little Things by One Direction. From there, the whole fic got different inspirations from different songs, and has its own soundtrack to it. A bit different than my norm, but it’s been kind of fun to do. If you aren’t familiar with any of the songs listed, you can check them out here. }:) (Ironically, Little Things is featured in this set, where it was originally the ending song of the story. I’ve since then chosen a different one. Happens when I’ve had this thing sitting around for months.)

 

The first time you heard the street guitarist was actually the day you moved in to your small one-bedroom apartment seven blocks from your grad school. You had just put away your dishes when the sound of strumming came through your open window, followed by a baritone voice singing some sort of lyrics you couldn't understand over the distance. You had to lean out of the window to properly hear the rendition of _Stairway to Heaven_ , and catch a glimpse of the performer.

On the street corner only about hundred yards from your apartment building was a tall, skinny man in a hoodie and baggie jeans. His black hair was a mop of a mess, and when he looked up from his guitar you could see white face paint, much like a clown's. He was an odd looking guy leaned up against a light post, singing and playing away, but his voice wasn't bad and his strumming actually sounded nice, so you left the window open, using the music to keep a pep in your step as you continued to get unpacked.

It didn't take you long to learn he was actually a common sight on the block. For the first week you lived there, the last days you had of freedom before the semester started, you could hear him playing from about noon until six in the evening. When the evening news started, he was packing up his guitar and walking off, to where you could only guess. 

You passed by him a couple of times when you were out and about, and each time, you would stop for just a few moments to hear his voice closer than you could from your window. For the most part, he didn't notice you, his eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration to even glance up at you. But sometimes he'd look up, and it was _always_ during a sappy love song, and when he did, he would give you a lopsided smile and wink. Your cheeks would burn up at the attention, and you were quick to abscond to your apartment, completely forgetting to drop money into his open guitar case like you did when he didn't notice you at all.

You asked the girl who lived next to you (Aradia, you learned when she invited you for coffee at a later date) about the guitarist. She didn't have much to offer, other than he only played during the week and disappeared for the weekend, probably to get high (that was the rumours she heard, anyway). Everyone felt kind of sorry for him, that he must be homeless, and the whole block at least tried to throw some change his way when they could. But from what you could gather, no one talked to him. They may have felt bad for him, but still thought he was too weird, and were nervous to talk to him.

You left it at that, tipping him when you walked by (and when he wasn't smiling at you) and leaving the window open to listen to him sing. As the first weeks of school started, you found his voice helped you concentrate when you had studying to do, or papers to grade from your teacher's assistant job. Some nights when you knew you'd be up to the late hours of the morning, you wish he'd stay later, just so you could keep focused. Instead, you just relied on coffee and your own stereo to get you through, even though it wasn't the same.

**::*~~*::**

It was a month after you moved in that you finally got the nerve to open your mouth and form actual words to the guitarist. Not that you hadn't tried, but you were by nature a very shy person, and speaking to new people was always difficult for you. It didn't help that he was a stranger that you knew nothing about, other than he had a nice set of vocal cords and talent for a six-stringer instrument (or that you were curious what was under that face paint because he always seemed to be wearing it).

You had tried speaking to him before, but when you opened your mouth, he would smile, and you would choke, running off before you could say anything. When you got back to your apartment, you poked your head out your window, and you blushed when he was looking at you, playing some obscure eighties song, grinning away.

You don't even know why you were trying, though: you had no idea what to say to him. 'Hey, you play nice'? That wasn't much of a conversation starter. And you didn't think talking about his life would be a great topic, either. What if he was homeless? Or the rumours of him being into drugs were valid? Those weren't casual subjects to bring up, it might be a sensitive area. And you surely weren't go to talk about yourself, there was nothing interesting about a biology major who used to be in veterinary school but couldn't handle the pressure and went toward research instead.

But for some reason, you just felt like you had to talk to him. You think at first it was out of pity: the whole time you had been in this neighbourhood, you never saw him speak to anyone. People walked by, dropping money for him, but never stopping for a quick chat or otherwise. At some point that pity just turned into genuine curiosity, and that seemed to drive you more to speaking to him than any sympathy ever could.

"Ummm, c-can I make a, uh, request?"

The guitarist slowed his playing to look up from his fingers to see you through his messy bangs. When he saw it was you, his lips grew to a large smile, and he straightened up to give you his full attention. "Is a mother fucker going to up and run away?"

You felt like it, with the grin he was giving, his eyes focused solely on you, and the heat radiating from your cheeks. You had to use every mantra in your mind to keep your feet firmly to the spot. "N-no, not this, time."

His smile softened some, and for some reason, that made you blush harder than any of his grins. You looked down at your feet, too embarrassed to keep your brown eyes on his blue-gray ones.

"What would the cute mother fucker like to hear?"

If the urge to run hadn't been strong before, it certainly was now. "Uh, I-I was wondering i-if you could play, I don't know," you stuttered out, trying to think of something. It wasn't how you thought the conversation would go, but it was the first thing that came out of your mouth, so now you actually had to think of a request. "Umm, what about Beatles? I don't think I've h-heard you, uhh, play anything by them, before."

"Beatles, huh?" He taps his chin in thought, then returns his eyes to his guitar as he starts playing again. Soon, he's singing _Hey Jude_ , in a softer voice than normal, like he's singing just for you.

You find yourself fixed to the spot, your eyes going from his fingers to his lips, watching him intently as he plays. There's a blush across your cheeks still, but you don't think about it too much, so engrossed with his voice.

As the song ends, he opens his eyes to look at you, that smile still on his lips. "That the kind of miracle a mother fucker was looking for?" he asks playfully.

You nod hesitantly. "T-that was, umm, nice," you manage to get out, hoping it sounds as much of a compliment as you meant it to be. You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for a big step in conversation. "My name is Tavros, b-by the way."

His smile only widens, and you think he looks genuinely happy, getting your name. "Gamzee."

"It's nice to, meet you, Gamzee," you say with a light smile.

"Likewise, Tavbro," he replies with a grin. "Anything else a mother fucker wants to hear?"

"Oh, n-no, that was good for me," you answer. "I need to get back home, anyway, lots of studying to do."

"Well, if Tavbro ever wants to hear something special, let me know."

You nod, smiling a little more than you mean to, before turning around and walking to your apartment.

As soon as your window was open, you heard the chords for _I Want to Hold Your Hand_ , and you couldn't help the small smile that crossed your lips.

**::*~~*::**

After that, you made a point to stop by and speak to him whenever you were out. At first, it was a simple 'how are you,' small talk about school or weird things Gamzee saw while playing, and every now and again, you'd make a request. But as summer turned into autumn, it was getting easier to talk to him, and your five minute stops were turning into fifteen, thirty, sometimes an hour conversations.

You found out he actually left at six every night to get to his job as a night clerk at a gas station. He told you he wasn't homeless, but he didn't tell you what side of town he lived on either. You told him about college, and he seemed rather interested with knowing more about you. He asked you all sorts of questions, where you came from, why biology, what music you did and didn't like, if you had pets, everything he could think of. It was safe to say you two had become friends within a few short weeks of knowing each other.

So it concerned you when you came back from school one day, and Gamzee wasn't in his usual spot singing. You were disappointed you didn't get to talk to your friend, but you let it go. He was allowed to miss one day of his street performance.

But that day turned into another, and then another, and before you knew it, a week had gone by with no music. You were really starting to worry, and just as you were about to see if he maybe went to another street, he was back, strumming away. 

When you left your apartment to greet him, you were a little taken aback by his more-than-normal disshelved appearance. As he raised his head to look at you, you couldn't help but notice the dark circles under his eyes. He smiled when he saw you, but it was weak at best. You frowned. You had grown accustomed to his silly and vibrant nature, and this wasn't befitting of him at all.

"I was, uhh, starting to worry about you," you told him, looking at your feet and trying to fight the blush on your cheeks.

Gamzee continues playing lightly as he cocks his head. "Why was a mother fucker worried?"

"Well, umm, y-you're normally here all the time, and, you know, you haven't been for a while, s-so I just didn't, uh, know if-"

"Hey, calm your tits," he says lightly. Your friend stops playing to put a hand on your shoulder, and his touch makes the heat on your cheeksspread all the way to your ears. You wonder if your mostly shaved head is just as red as your face.

"S-sorry, I know it sounds stupid, maybe, uh, weird that I, you know, n-noticed, but..."

"It's okay," Gamzee assures you, giving your shoulder a squeeze. "It's actually nice to know that someone even noticed this mother fucker was gone."

Something in his voice was different, softer than usual, and full of an emotion you couldn't quite place. You brave a look at him, and he's smiling, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Some thing’s off, but you don't know what. You put a hand on top of his, holding it lightly against your shoulder, and the action seems to make his smile grow into something more honest.

"Make a request," he suggests gently. "I want to play something for Tavbro."

You stare at your feet again, flustered by his words. "Well, umm, d-do you know any Jack Johnson?"

He hums in thought. "Haven't really learned anything from this mother fucking century," he says. "Been meaning to give it a shot, just haven't yet, sorry to say."

"O-oh, no, it's um, okay. What about some, I guess, Pink Floyd?"

He nods as he starts the chords for _Hey You_. He goes on to play a couple more, and you stay to talk to him between songs, and soon you've stayed long enough to see him pack up to go to work.

The next day, the one day with a late afternoon class, you're still around when Gamzee starts his playing for the day. You can't help but chuckle when the lyrics to _Banana Pancakes_ drift through your window.

**::*~~*::**

Things stay like that, even after your midterms. Despite the weather getting colder and the few drizzles outside, Gamzee's on the street, playing his guitar and singing for anyone that would listen. Occasionally he's missing for a few days, but he always comes back, though not always as chipper as his usual self.

You find you're very relaxed around him, opening up in ways you haven't in a really long time. You ask him to coffee a few times, but with his late night schedule, your daytime school, and his seemingly unavoidable weekend preoccupations that he never talks about, you both can't find time to spend together other than his lamp post. So, here and again, you bring him some tea or coffee, and he brings snacks from the gas station that were dangerously close to their expiration date (what did you care, you were a grad student living off scholarships, loans, and your TA wages, food was food).

There was one Friday night in November where the light rain from the past few days turned heavy. It was just a little after five that the first rumbles of thunder could be heard, and out of curiosity, you looked out your window to the lamppost where you had been speaking to Gamzee only a couple of hours earlier.

Undeterred by the rain, he was still playing away, his hood as his only protection from the weather's onslaught. With a roll of your eyes, you picked up your umbrella and headed outside to see your rather idiotic friend. You thought he was rather foolish to continue singing when it was raining cats and dogs outside, soaking his guitar, but it was something you'd come to expect of him. He wanted to play, so he was going to play.

The umbrella only helped you so much, with wind turning the rain into your face. You walked briskly to the lamp post, Gamzee's attention on you when you came closer, that big grin of his in place.

"Mother fucker's getting wet," he said casually as you lifted the umbrella over both of you.

"And you look like, a drowned cat," you retort. "Do you want to come in and dry off for a bit?"

He raises a brow. "You sure you want a mother fucker in your pad?"

You're a little confused, but you nod. "I think you might get, uhh, washed away if you stay out here."

Gamzee gives you his usual grin. "Mother fucker might just take you up on that offer." You step back, giving him the moment he needs to pack up his guitar before leading him back to your apartment.

The first thing you do after Gamzee and you are both inside and the apartment door is locked, is to get him a towel and a change of clothes. Thankfully you have a few sets of your brother's clothes that you occasionally used for pajamas, and you thought it should be just enough for him while you run his wet set to the dryer downstairs. When you hand the articles of clothing to him, and you had to leave the room when he just started taking off his wet clothes, not even bothering to turn around.

"S-sorry, I thought you and my brother might, uh, be the same size," you apologise when you come back into the living area.

Gamzee just gave you a lopsided grin from where he sat on your couch. "Is okay, mother fucker, I just appreciate being dry. All sorts of miracles."

You smile lightly. "Well, there's no sense in standing out there, uh, letting your guitar get wet, r-right?"

"Tavbro's right," he says with a shrug. "But the bus doesn't up and come around the block until six fifteen, no point in leaving until then."

"O-oh, right, you need to be gone by then, huh?" You gather his wet clothing from where he left them in front of the couch. "I'll go throw these, you know, in the dryer downstairs..."

"Take your time, mother fucker," he assures you, putting a hand on your shoulder. You look up at him, and he's smiling softly. "Got no shift tonight, so I can just leave whenever. Hell, if a mother fucker wants, I'll just abscond already, I can dry them elsewhere."

You stand up, his clothes soaking your shirt some. "No, it's, uhh, okay. Y-you can stay for a while, and, umm, h-hang out?"

"That sounds bitchtits awesome," he says, the gratitude laced in his voice. "Mother fucker would love to have some chill time with his Tavbro."

You blush at his endearment. "I'll be right back. J-just make yourself at home, okay?"

Gamzee nods, watching after you as you leave for the laundry room. It takes you a few moments to set everything up, putting the coins in the machine, followed by his clothes. You only needed to dry them for fifteen minutes, and when they were dry, you headed back up to the apartment.

When you stepped back into your home, the first thing you noticed was Gamzee was no longer sitting on the couch, replaced by his guitar. You raised a brow, calling out his name as you close the door.

"Kitchen, Tavbro," he answers.

You followed his voice, almost expecting him to be in your barren refrigerator (he was far too skinny, you actually wanted him to eat a bit), but instead he's looking through the cabinet above your stove. When you got closer, you saw he was holding your iPod in the hand not sifting through your cabinet, one ear-bud in his right ear, the other dangling on his chest. You can faintly hear the lyrics to _I'm Yours_ coming from it.

"Tav has a lot of hot cocoa mixes," he observes, pulling down one box of the mentioned beverage.

You blush, rubbing the back of your neck in embarrassment. "I-I, umm, I just really like it, r-right? It's silly, but I, uhh, always need a cup of it to, you know, sleep..."

He looks at you, and he's got this smile on his face, and you know he doesn't think any less of you for your odd habit. You just still felt ashamed of it, after all the teasing your brother put you through.

"Why, umm, why do you have my iPod?"

"Hmm? Oh." He pauses it, taking the ear-bud out of his ear. "Was wondering what Tavbro liked. Found your bitchtits acoustic list." (You look down at your feet, too embarrassed to look at him, afraid you'd admit you made the list after hearing him sing.) "Wanted to know what a mother fucker liked, what maybe I should start playing."

He gives you a dangerous grin. "Didn't think the mother fucker would have so many love songs, though."

"S-shush, they aren't that, um, bad," you weakly defend.

"Didn't say they weren't miracles." He ruffles your mohawk playfully. "Think it's mother fucking cute."

You stammer out something, flustered as usual when he called you cute or anything like that. You never know how to respond to him, you never know if he's flirting or if he's just being friendly.

You also don't know which one you want it to be.

"Um, would you l-like a cup of cocoa?" you offer, anything to change the subject.

"That sounds like miracles," he answers with a grin, getting out of the way.

You take the kettle from the stove, taking it to the sink to fill. "Any particular kind you, uh, like? I have regular, mint, white, dark..." You continue your list, including some extra things you could do like marshmallows and whip cream, and it's an automatic ramble. When you look back at Gamzee, his got a smile on his face, something soft but pensive.

"W-what?"

"Was just noticing a mother fucker doesn't stumble as much when talking about something he likes."

"Oh, uh, I g-guess?" You shrug, chuckling lightly as you put the kettle back on the stove, turning the heat on. "But, which..."

"Whatever Tavbro's having would be fine," he tells you, that same smile still in place. "What's your miracle flavour?"

"Oh, pretty much any of them, but I especially like dark chocolate." You pull down one of the boxes from the cabinet. "Too bad I don't have any drinking chocolate," you mention off-handedly.

"Is that different?"

You nod, smiling lightly. "You always use milk with it, it's creamier, and it's just, I don't know, better." You frown a bit. "I haven't been able to, uh, find any around here, though."

"All this chocolate, mother fucker must be rolling in the babes," Gamzee comments with a snicker.

"O-oh, no, not like..." You shake your head. "I'm far from 'rolling in the babes'."

"Aw, cute mother fucker like you? Got to have someone after you."

"Not r-really..." You're setting up two mugs, ripping open the packages and pouring the powder out. "I mean, there's this one g-girl in my technical writing class, s-she, uh, I don't know, flirts with me, b-but I don't..."

Gamzee's leaning in, intrigue written on his face. "What? Don't know how to talk to girls?" he asks with a smirk.

"W-well, umm, it's not that, e-exactly," you reply, blushing. "She's just kind of, I mean, not my type? She's pretty, uh, mean, and her way of f-flirting is to trip me or steal my pencils, or something."

"Pretty playground like," he comments.

As the kettle started to shriek, you were quick to take it off the eye, turning off the heat. You started to pour the water into the cups. "It really, uh, is playground like. And she always acts l-like it's inevitable we'll get together." You pull a bag of marshmallows down from the cabinet. "I can't get behind that, I'm not going to, um, like someone just because they like me, right?"

You look back at him over your shoulder and he has this unreadable expression on his face, like he's thinking about something.

"So, if you don't go by playground rules, what does a mother fucker like?"

You turn back to the mugs to hide your blush, fishing out your hand mixer for small cups to properly stir the cocoa. It was one of the only fancy things in your kitchen, a gift from your dad before you left for school, along with the majority of the drink mixes in your cabinet.

"I-I don't know, I've never put a lot of, uh, thought into it." You sprinkle some of the marshmallows on top. "I guess, uh, I'd want to f-fall into it, right?" You turn back to him, handing him one of the cups, and he takes it with a nod.

"I think, from the few times I've, uh, imagined it, just a friendship that one day, you both look at each other, and something just... clicks." You take a sip from your cup, glad that it came out right. You look at him, hiding half your face with the mug. "Does... Does that make sense?"

Gamzee smiles lightly. "Would explain all the bitchtits love songs, you mother fucking romantic."

You punch him in the arm. "See if I tell you anything personal again."

He chuckles. "Meant nothing by it, Tavbro."

"What about, um, you?" you ask, avoiding his eyes. "Do you, umm, have someone?"

Gamzee shrugs. "Never been with any mother fucker. Had a really bitchtits best friend, though, when I lived in the building across the street."

"You used to live, here?"

He nods, taking a drink before continuing. "Was a few years ago, but he..." He bites his lip. "Mother fucker went to the store, one of those wrong place, wrong time kind of things... Up and got himself shot, making sure this girl didn't get hurt."

You hate the look on his face, the one that shows his loss. You put a hand on his shoulder, what you hope is comforting, and he rubs his cheek along the back of your palm, some of his running make-up marking you.

"Does that... Is that why you, um, come back here?"

He nods. "Mother fucker used to like it when I sang, says it kept me busy in the good way. From all the unmiraculous shit I do..."

"W-what do you mean?"

He shakes his head. "Mother fucker want to watch some TV? Could really use the change in atmosphere."

You nod, leading the way back to the living room. Gamzee takes his guitar, setting it on the dining room table. You assume he was leaving it out to dry. He joins you on the couch as you pick up the remote, quickly finding something humourous to watch.

You both talk, barely watching the screen, too engrossed with one another. At some point, the cocoa has its usual affect on you, and your eyes get heavy. Before long, you passed out, not even noticing you were still on the couch, or that you had leaned into Gamzee's side.

When you wake up, you're laying down, and it takes you a moment to realise you're on top of Gamzee's chest. He's fast asleep, an arm lazily wrapped around you. You had to spend a moment, thinking if you wanted to stay (because it was really, really comfortable), or leave to avoid any awkwardness in the morning.

Your embarrassment making you decide on the latter, you calmly and slowly stood up, doing everything to not wake him. You grabbed the Afghan you keep on the back of the couch, gently laying it over Gamzee before absconding to your bedroom.

In the morning, Gamzee is gone along with his guitar before you can even wake up. He left you a note, saying he had to leave for an early morning shift and thanking you for the cocoa. You can't help but think he might have been embarrassed that you fell asleep on him, and you mentally reprimand yourself for not being less awkward. You hope this doesn't make things weird, and you're probably over-thinking about it, but you don't want to lose Gamzee's friendship to you being a little too open when you don't even know that's what he wants.

Your worries are instantly assuaged however, when you open your door the next day, and there's a bottle of dark drinking chocolate on your welcome mat.

**::*~~*::**

Gamzee stayed over off and on after that. 

It was always when he had morning shifts instead of night ones, but never on the weekends. You thought you'd be bothered by someone staying during the week, with the school work you had, but he was surprisingly good company for studying. When he saw you hitting the books, he would just pick up his guitar and your iPod, opting to try playing more of your modern music than bothering you. It was nice, actually: it helped you study, much as it had when he was on the corner.

When the days starting getting shorter and colder, Gamzee would pack up his things once you were back from school and follow you home. You didn't mind so much: the private shows and his company were a welcome distraction from the hardships of graduate school.

You also couldn't help the smile it brought, realising the love songs from your playlist he learned while sitting on your couch, he never played on the street for anyone else. You didn't know what to think of it, but it made you feel special.

There was some point where he started to bring food on the nights he was staying, and he would help you cook some grand dinner that you ended up having leftovers for some days. You liked having him around for meals: eating alone was not something you really experienced before, and after the first few months of living alone, you can't say you were really thrilled with the prospect of it at all.

There was an unfortunate side effect of eating so well, you found one morning as you were getting ready for school. Gamzee was in your living room, playing different songs he'd learned like _Little Things_ , as you got showered and dressed. Well, tried to get dressed, anyway. The same pair of jeans you'd worn since freshman year of high school, the ones that always went on right, were giving you trouble as you attempted to button them. After three tries at closing it, you finally got them buttoned, but it was uncomfortable and too tight as it dug into your waist line. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you groaned loudly at the muffin top you were starting to grow.

"What's wrong, Tavbro?"

You jump slightly at Gamzee's sudden appearance behind you, his light smile showing in the mirror. He chuckles a little at how easy it is to startle you, and eases you with a hand gently down you back.

After an expectant look from him, you answer, "I guess I just, um, don't like how much I've... this." You lightly pinch the excess flab of one of your love handles.

Gamzee's smile softens some as he makes a 'tsk' sound. You tense a little when he wraps his hands around your middle, deliberately laying his hands on your stomach. "I think a mother fucker looks all up and healthy."

"Says the stick," you tease. You force yourself to relax, melting into his embrace, hiding your little smile with a tilt of the head.

"We can start taking some miraculous walks, if it would make you feel better," he suggests, a light roll of the shoulders.

You don't answer right away, distracted by the arms tight around you and his face nuzzling ever so lightly into the crook of your neck. You could never tell with him how serious he was being, if he meant the actions he did so casually, or if he was naturally this physical with everyone. You blush a little at the thought that you wouldn't stop him if he was honestly flirting, but you'd never say such a thing out loud.

In a rare moment of courage, you put your hands on top of his arms, giving them a little squeeze as you lean back slightly. He just tightens his grip around you, and you can't see his face any longer as he tucks his forehead into your neck.

The conversation drops as you both spend a moment in silence just holding each other. He moves his hands to your sides, and you gasp when you think his lips graze your skin. You turn your head slightly, words on your lips, when you notice something on the inside of his elbow. The skin of his arms were never exposed, hidden by either a hoodie or a long-sleeved shirt, but today he had been wearing a tee due to the heating in your building. This was the first time you could see the normally hidden flesh, and suddenly you understood why he always hid them.

"Gamzee?" you start, taking his arm in your hand so you could get a better look. "Are... are t-these...?"

He loosens his grip on you, but doesn't take his arm from you. He frowns, the look on his face one of slight shame. "Mother fucker has a record, you could say..."

Your eyes are hard on him with your next question. "Do you still, um---?"

"Getting better," is all he says, offering no more explanation.

You look at the healing holes and tracks once more before letting go. "So, you do." You stare at your feet, unable to look him in the eyes.

"Not like I used to," Gamzee says with a strange amount of clarity. He puts a finger under your chin and lightly tilts your head up so you can look him in the eyes. "Tav, mother fucker promises never to do that anywhere around you."

"W-what about just, um, stopping?" you reply, the simple and sure answer that it seems to you.

The smile he gives you is bittersweet at best. "Things aren't so easy."

You're left in a moment of silence, his hand cupping your jaw lightly as he waits for you to say something, the words just not coming to you. You don't want to deal with it, for it to become a topic in the future, to ever have it be something in your life. You've never known anyone with a real drug problem (you didn't count the potheads at your high school), and it wasn't something you'd ever want to be involved with.

But when Gamzee removes his hand from your face, a frown on his face as he starts to leave, you know you don't want to lose him either.

"Gamzee," you call, grabbing his wrist before he can leave.

He stops without resistance, turning to look you in the eyes. He raises a brow, encouraging you on.

"...you promise?"

A small smile climbs it's way back onto his painted face as he pulls you in for a tight hug. "I promise," he whispers into your ear.

You wrap your arms around his back, holding onto him as he nuzzles into your shoulder, probably staining you with his make-up. 

Neither one of you make to move, not until much later, after your bus has long since left. You're all right with that, surprisingly. You hadn't missed a day yet, and with no tests to worry about, you spent the day with your friend, taking a rather long walk in the park.

**::*~~*::**

It wasn't a subject brought up too often after that. It was only addressed two more times before being completely dropped. Once when you had asked him about quitting, to which he told you he had tried several times to no avail, until he was at the state he was in now, where a mix of the guitar, needles, and friendships at different times seemed to keep him pretty level. It didn't make you happy to hear, but you felt you were helping in your way with his increased attention on you than whatever he did when he wasn't at work or outside playing the guitar.

This led to the question of what he was doing on the weekends. Well, what he formally did on the weekends, anyway. Now it was Tuesday through Thursday, the days you were the longest at school. This freed him up to spend Saturday and Sunday with you, which you weren't going to complain about. But when you asked him about his activities during your time apart, he could only admit that was part of what he was doing, besides hanging out with his cruder set of friends (ones that he says you'll never meet because, although he can trust them, he doesn't trust what they'd do high around someone as 'cute' as you).

It would be a couple more weeks, right before you leave for Thanksgiving with your family (the holiday you chose to spend with them, since you didn't trust the weather for keeping a promise for Christmas), that it would get brought back up. Gamzee knocked on your door at eleven the Tuesday before you left, which you thought odd, considering you told him you were leaving in the morning and needed your sleep. When you open the door for him, his arms were stretched across the doorway, a huge grin on his face, the headphones around his neck blasting _Drugstore,_ his make-up running, and his eyes bloodshot. You recognised the smell on his jacket from high school when you hung out behind the gym building after everyone left, and you frowned at him.

"Gamzee," you say lowly, the disappointment in your tone.

"Sorry to be a bother, Tavbro," he says. His voice starts with a playful hint, but when he focuses more on you, his goofy grin falters. "Mother fucker'll just head out."

He lifts himself from the doorframe and started to turn, but you caught the sleeve of his jacket. "What's, um, going on?"

His blue-gray eyes, large as they were right that moment, settles on you, and he gives a lopsided grin. "Just need a place to crash," he says. "Had to abscond from the mother fucker's I was at."

"Why not go, home?"

He chuckles, something dark and without mirth. "Mother fucker has no home, just kind of go from place to place, with whoever'll keep me."

You frown, concerned that he had somewhat lied to you about his housing situation.

"You can stay, but you have to leave in the, uh, m-morning," you tell him as you pull him into your apartment. "I'm leaving, remember?"

"Mother fucker remembers, kinda." He stands next to you while you lock the door. Before you can turn around again, you squeak when his arms are suddenly around you in a tight hold.

"Gamzee, w-what are you-?"

"Lay down with me," he whispers, his warm breath (that lightly smelled like beer) flitting over your ear and making you shudder. "Just for a bit."

You don't move, hesitant on your response. He had been getting more and more physical with you, his flirting heavier and heavier. And though you had responded best you could in your shy nature and silently wanted him to do something more serious, this was not what you had in mind. You had your own experiences with intoxicants (you were a college student after all), and you knew just as well as the next person that when you're inebriated, you went for the prettiest thing you could find. His being high took out all the sincerity from the last few weeks, and you didn't know if you could stand it.

But he was pulling you to the couch, and your feet were just letting him. Not a single protest came from your mouth as he sits down, pulling you down with him. He spent a moment toeing off his shoes, stopping his discman and putting it on the side table, then removing his hoodie before returning his attention to you. His arms were around your middle once more, holding you close as he nuzzles your mohawk, and you still couldn't think of anything to say. 

You think you should shove him away, excuse yourself for the comfort of your own bed. But his hand rubbing your back just so while he buried his head in your neck was far from unpleasant, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't enjoying the attention. You let a hand tangle in the mop he calls hair, your fingers running through the strands, and a breath leaves him as he enjoys the touch.

After a few more moments of the almost cautious touchings, you find yourself lying down, your back to his front as you both squeeze to fit comfortably on the couch. For a moment, you're going to ask him to your bedroom, but a mix of your fluster and his arm around you keeps the suggestion from leaving your lips.

The air is still aside from his breathing against your ear, and you close your eyes, allowing yourself to fall back asleep, when he whispers something you don't quite catch.

"What'd you say, Gamz?"

"Just thanking a bitchtits mother fucker," he says in a slightly more audible voice. He accents the note of gratitude with a light kiss to your neck, sending a shiver down your back. Before you can respond, his face is buried at the base of your skull, leaving you blushing as you're sure from his breathing he's passed out.

Not letting yourself think about it, you take the hand around your middle, holding lightly to it as you kiss his knuckles before tucking it to your chest and closing your eyes once more.

It's the alarm in your bedroom that wakes you up in the morning. You're disappointed that Gamzee has left already, but it's just as well: you have a Greyhound to catch. You get ready for your trip quick enough, your bag already packed. It's a rather typical trip to your family's, and the next five days go by rather uneventfully besides the large meal and then the football games your father and brother make you endure.

When you get back Sunday night, you're surprised to find a note taped to your door. After getting into your apartment and setting things down, you relax on the couch (that you realise needs to be Febreezed after Gamzee's last visit), and open the folded piece of paper.

You smile to find it's from Gamzee, oddly written with changing capitalizations and his unusual speech patterns within. At first it was just him hoping you had a good trip, ate lots of good food, and enjoyed your family. It was later on it became an apology for the other night, and a scribbled promise that it would never happen again. You're smiling at each line, appreciative at his thoughtfulness.

And then your face heats up at the 'xoxo' in his signature.

**::*~~*::**

There's a brief time Gamzee is absent from your life, a full two weeks, much like he had done back when you were first getting to know him. You wanted to fret, curious where he was and if he was all right, but he didn't have a phone to keep up communications and you were busy studying for your finals.

It was the night after your winter break started that he showed up at door, close to midnight, his grin in place and hands full of Chinese take-out and his guitar slung over his back. He seemed his usual self, at least the sober version you knew, and you welcomed him in with a smile and a hug. It had started snowing earlier in the day, accumulating into at least three inches since you had last checked, but it didn't seem to put a damper on Gamzee's mood as he put down the food, shaking off the wet flakes from his hair. He told you the snow was falling harder, there were at least six inches now.

As you both started to pig out on the noodles, you talked about what you had been doing since you'd last seen each other. You told him about school and how you think you failed your writing exam, and he tells you about work, how he had to stop some shop lifters one night and other events.

You don't ask him where else he's been.

At some point, he plugged up your iPod to its base so your music drifted through the air. As _Animal_ went on in the background, he sat down close to you, his leg against yours and a hand lightly on your back. You blush, but don't make a move to deter him. You had missed his touches, and had no intention of discouraging them.

The evening went on, your topics constantly changing. As the snow flakes fell outside your window, the two of you sank into the couch huddled under a couple of the throws you keep in the living room, pressed tight to each others' side. Gamzee's arm was wound around your lower back, his hand gently rubbing circles in your hip. Your head was leaned against his shoulder in your endeavour to stay awake, but the cup of cocoa in your hands and Gamzee's comfortable body were starting to lull you to sleep.

The conversation had changed once more along with the music, and somehow Gamzee had gotten onto the topic of clowns. You had no idea how it had come up, but in your sleepy state, it led you to ask something you had refrained from since the first time you'd spoken to the guitarist:

"Why do you where the, uh, face paint, Gamz?"

He pauses in whatever he was talking about to tilt his head so he can look at you. His smile has fallen some into something almost unsure as he contemplates his answer.

"Y-you don't have to tell me," you say, his hesitation making you nervous. "It really isn't my, uh business, I guess..."

You start to shrink away from him, thinking you've over stepped your bounds, but he holds tight to you, keeping you against his side. "Nah, it's cool of a mother to ask," he reassures you. He chuckles as he goes on, "Just kinda figured you'd already bring it up, is all."

You're blushing, but you nod, relaxing against him once more. His smile returned some, and you waited patiently for his answer as he thought how to phrase it.

"When I was a tiny mother fucker, I got... overlooked a lot," he starts, his eyes on yours. "And when no one would turn an ear my way, I'd get some kind of unmiraculous angry, and take it out in ways everyone thought needed to change.

"So this mother fucker, a counsellor or something, sits me down and asks me what's up, and I tell him, this mother fucker just wants someone to hear him. And what does he tell me?" He snickers at the rhetorical question. "Tells me to change my approach. To tell a joke to get their attention, and then talk.

"And I do that, and after a while, people are giving me some miraculous attention, but only when I'm, heh, clowning around. Lots of mother fuckers start calling me the class clown, and I take it to the mother fucking heart and start to up and put stuff on my face. And no one stops this mother fucker, they think it's enduring or some shit, but I could care less. Mother fuckers listened, and now they do even more because I'm not just the random going strumming on main street, this is the mother fucker with the sick beats _that has a face_."

He grins, but it's hollow. "Now every mother fucker listens."

You frown, your eyes intent on his. "But no one knows the real you."

His smile falters as he looks away from you. "It's the mother fucking trade-off, I guess."

It's a moment before you say anything else, as you gently bite your lip, thinking what to say. Finally, you lean in so that your lips just barely brush his cheek before you tell him, "You don't need to make me laugh or sing for me, Gamzee. I'll listen."

Gamzee's blue eyes meet yours once more, his mouth in an uncharacteristic straight line. He looks almost at a lose for words, but then his eyes soften and he smiles just enough. He reaches a hand up to gently cup your jaw as he breathes, "Tav..."

You're not sure which one of you is moving, but his face is getting closer to his, and you let your eyes close half-way. You can feel his breath on your lips as his mouth gets closer, and there's a moment of hesitation, one where you think you should be pushing forward, just another inch--

And then it's pitch black and silent.

"What up and happened to the lights?" Gamzee asks, his body moving away.

You mentally berate yourself for letting the chance slip away. "Probably snow, uh, downed a power-line," you assume. You get up, feeling your way to the kitchen to search for a flash light, and after finding one and turning it on, you return to Gamzee. The heat shutting off was already having its affect, and he had the two blankets wrapped tightly about his person.

"Maybe it's time to, uh, get some sleep, r-right?" you suggest, not taking your spot next to him. You knew if you sat down again, you'd want to just wrap up next to him, and you didn't know if it would be awkward for him or not.

He frowns, a look of disappointment on his face, but nods. "Maybe so..."

"Um, there's a couple more blankets in the linen closet, if you think you need them." He nods again. "Well, uh, g-goodnight."

"Night, Tavbro," he says half heartedly, laying down on the couch as you make your way to the bedroom with aide of the flash light.

You're quick to get into your pyjamas, wanting to avoid the cold as long as you could, and then you were in your bed, getting the blankets tight around you. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on sleeping, but it was freezing, even with your thick blanket. You stay like that a few more minutes, slightly shaking, but you're restless, and not just because of the temperature.

You keep thinking about Gamzee, and a blush comes to your face about your almost kiss. Well, you hope that was what that was, otherwise, you were just being foolish. No matter, you still felt strangely lonely without him next to you, even though he was just in the next room. But he had been warm and comfortable, and you still felt a lingering need for his proximity after his absence.

After debating with yourself only a moment more, you left your bed to step only a foot into the living room. You hesitated before calling out into the darkness, "...Gamzee?"

"Yeah, Tavbro?" his voice drifts in.

"Uh, it's pretty c-cold, and I-I, umm..." You scratch the back of your neck nervously. "Maybe it would be b-better to..." You gulp. "Ugh, maybe not, nevermind."

You stay in your spot for only a second longer before turning around, too mortified to finish.

But Gamzee's voice stops you, and you think he's stood, trying to find his way to you. "What's up?"

You turn back, finding his silhouette with help from the light post outside. "I just thought, since it's so cold, um..." He's right in front of you now, you know when his hand ghosts over your shoulder, settling on your upper arm when he's sure where you are.

"You can stay, you know, in the, uh... b-bed, with me, if you w-want..."

His hand slides your arm to take hold of your palm, giving it a squeeze. "That sounds like miracles," he replies, a smile in his voice.

"O-okay..."

Gamzee is the one the pulls on your hand, leading you back to your room, where the only light is a dull yellow from a street lamp outside. You both get under the covers, and you panic for a small moment, not sure what's expected of you now.

But he doesn't move to touch you other than settling against your side. You sigh, telling yourself not to expect more, but can't help the quick inhale as he takes your hand in his. You blush, smiling to yourself. To you, this is more than enough.

You both exchange another round of goodnights before passing out. It's still a little cold, but the heat from Gamzee is enough to lull you into a comfortable slumber.

You're woken up in the morning by _Morning Song_ drifting in from the living room. With an idle thought, you realise the power is back on, but that does matter to you. Not when you notice sometime during the night, you both adjusted, and Gamzee was flush against your back, his arms tightly around you and his face pressed against your neck.

You just melt into his arms, drifting off back to sleep as long as you can.

**::*~~*::**

Gamzee stays with you throughout your break, only leaving for work or to get something to eat. You're glad to have him around: your only other friend, Aradia, has left for Christmas with her family, and the snow was keeping you from yours. Were it not for his constant presence, you would be completely alone for almost a month. Though you liked your moments of solitude, that was just way too long without contact.

Being with you, it meant he wasn't out doing those... things, that he does. You were more than happy to sacrifice your personal time if it meant edging him off what ailed him. There was a couple days he was gone, but that was it.

Christmas was unique this year compared to the ones at home. You didn't really know where to get a tree (nor did you have the room for one), so you and Gamzee went in on a small one, not much more than a foot tall, with tiny ornaments and lights. Getting it from the store had been a bit embarrassing, though, as Gamzee had gone about holding your hand whenever you were both out. Despite the looks it got you, you never stopped him, though you did pull away when he tried to wrap an arm around your waist or shoulder.

You celebrated the holiday by lounging around the apartment, gorging on food and exchanging gifts sometime late in the evening. At some point, you had two glasses of eggnog, and the slight buzz let you kiss him on the cheek when he holds a sprig of mistletoe over your head with no hesitation. He seemed happy enough with that, and that night you both fell asleep holding onto each other instead of on opposite sides of the bed.

A week rolled by, and New Year's Eve found you both on your couch, tuned to the local station to watch the ball drop, and plenty of liquor in your systems. Gamzee had insisted New Year's be spent 'properly smashed,' and had brought two bottles of tequila, one for each of you. 

You had taken shot after shot, matching Gamzee as much as you can, and after the sixth one, you grab his hand to keep it from pouring another. You tell him to wait, that your stomach needs to settle. He just takes it as a sign to wrap an arm around you, nestling you into his side as he casually runs a hand through your mohawk, sending shivers down your spine at his gentle touch. You don't know when it happened, but your hand was under his shirt, just barely touching as you run a hand up and down his side. You think he's purring at the attention, which only makes you keep doing it.

Ever since Gamzee had started sleeping in the bed with you, your physical contact with each other had grown more constant. When the guitar wasn't in his lap, you were, either cuddling or just watching television with him. Though you went to sleep on different sides of the bed, you would always wake up near each other, if not holding one another. Some mornings were awkward, either his or your morning wood poking the other, and though Gamzee didn't seem to mind, it made your mind wander.

You were taking a lot of cold showers recently.

Gamzee hadn't tried to anything more than the cuddling since that night the power went out, and it was starting to make you antsy. You were almost convinced it had been your imagination, that he really hadn't tried to kiss you. But then you two had many chances since then, and he always looked like he wanted to, but he'd stop at the last moment. You wondered if he was waiting for you to make the first move, but you were new to this, all of it, and you had no idea where to go from here other than to just enjoy the attention you were getting.

So, even with his arm around you, his face dangerously close to yours as he speaks, you didn't push the subject. You just sank into his embrace, letting the alcohol work its way into your blood, and lowering your inhibitions just enough to occasionally run your lips along the underside of his chin.

"What's Tavbro's resolution?" he asks when it's almost midnight. The television was muted at this point, only on for the countdown, while your iPod played in the background.

"Hmm, I guess to study more," you answer with a shrug. You're always surprised how little you stutter when you drink, but you guess that has to do more with not thinking about your words before the leave your mouth.

Gamzee scoffs as he leans forward, his arm lingering loosely around you, as he pours two more shots. "Tav's resolution should be not to study as much, mother fucker wastes too much time on it as is."

"It's not a waste of time to make sure I keep my scholarship," you retort, reluctantly taking the glass handed to you. You still didn't think you were ready for another shot, your stomach uneasy for the mix of tequila and the tacos you had for dinner, but you guessed he was determined to have a drink at midnight.

You giggle slightly as he settles against you again, nuzzling his shoulder as you go on, "You're just upset I'm not paying attention to you."

He grins at you, pulling on you until you're in his lap. "Mother fucker's all sorts of jealous of those textbooks. Wish you'd hit me as hard as you hit them, if a mother fucker knows what I mean." He says it with a wink, and you almost spill your drink with how hard you're laughing.

"What about you?" you ask when you've calmed down.

"Not sure what a mother fucker could do different this year," he says, holding you a bit tighter around your middle.

"You could always not see those other guys as much," you say without thinking. You put a hand to your mouth when you realise the words, though, especially the tone you say it with. It could be taken possessively if anyone else heard it, and you almost wish it was.

But it's not. It's disappointment and sadness, and he knows that, too.

He gives a look of hurt and regret. "Tav..."

But you go on, and you could blame it on the drink, but you were going to say anything without thought, why not this?

"And you can stay here whenever you need to, I mean it, I don't even need to be here." You paused for a moment to hiccup. "You can... You can have a key, you can come and go whenever, just..." You lean your forehead against his as you gave him a gentle smile. "Just try to stop. Please?"

He's quiet for a moment, his blue eyes oddly serious for how drunk you bother are. "Mother fucker's drunk, won't remember any of that miraculous speech in the morning."

You cup his jaw, running your thumb along his chin. "I'll remember. I'll get you a, uh, keyring, special, just for you."

He's grinning now, though it's still unsure.

"It's almost miracle hour," he says softly, his breath just lightly passing over your face.

"How close?" you ask. From where you are on his lap, you can only see his face and the back of the couch. With the television muted, you can only hear _Come On, Get Higher_ drifting through the air.

"'Bout thirty seconds."

You turn around to the screen, watching the seconds go down from twenty-five.

"Last one for the night," you say, holding up your shot. You still felt a little queasy, but he was eagerly nodding, so you knew you couldn't get out of it.

When it came to it, you both counted down from ten seconds to one, exclaiming your joy for the new year before you both shot back the tequila simultaneously. You shiver when the warm liquid hits your stomach, and you worry for a moment it might not settle right, but you're pulled from the thought when cold hands take your cheeks. You look at Gamzee, ready to ask what he was doing, but his lips silenced you. Your eyes were wide, your heart racing as he held you in place, his mouth locked on yours.

It wasn't a quick peck, either. He was making no move to let up, but that was probably because you were returning it as well as you could through your surprise. You can feel his tongue flick over your lower lip, but when you open your mouth, another surge goes through your abdomen.

Gamzee has a shocked expression when you shove him away, making a mad dash for the bathroom. You just barely have time to lift the seat before emptying your stomach of all the liquor and beef. When you have nothing left in you and you've flushed away the disgusting mess, you hang onto the porcelain chair.

After another moment, there's footsteps behind you, and then a hand rubbing your back. You sigh, too ashamed to turn your head and see him.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, more to the toilet than yourself.

"That bad, huh?" Gamzee teases lightly.

You look up at him, a weak smile on your lips. "Not... not that..." You let out a groan when he starts kneading into the muscles of your shoulders. "That was... mm, I actually..." You turn back to the bowl, your cheeks aflame.

"It's okay, Tavbro," he says. A shiver goes down your spine when he kisses the back of your neck. "This mother fucker knows your limit now."

You chuckle, but it's a half-hearted sound.

"You need another moment?"

"No, I... That's all I've got."

"How about these mother fuckers hit the hay, then?" His fingers are in your hair now, and you're body is feeling so heavy, you think of taking his advice without moving. "Then we'll have all of tomorrow for some miracles..."

"Okay, that sounds, augh, like a really good plan, but first..." You're barely able to stand, your legs weak. Gamzee has an arm around your waist to help you up. "...I really need to brush my teeth."

He just laughs as he helps you to the sink. Once your mouth doesn't feel as gross, you leave Gamzee's side for the bedroom, slowly changing into your night clothes before just flopping down on your bed. Moments later, after turning off all the lights for you, he's getting you under the covers, joining you within seconds. You're already drifting off to sleep when he wraps his arms around you, holding you tight to him, and nuzzling your neck.

"Gonna get you a key," you murmur into his shirt.

He gives you a squeeze, kissing your mohawk. "Okay, Tav." You think he doesn't sound convinced, but you can't be sure, your eyes closed and the comfort of his arms lulling you to sleep.

Three days later, Gamzee just smiles at you when you hand him keyring with the pewter guitar on it.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're interested, here's the set list for this chapter:  
> Stairway to Heaven – Led Zeppelin  
> Hey Jude – Beatles  
> I Want to Hold Your Hand – Beatles  
> Hey You – Pink Floyd  
> Banana Pancakes – Jack Johnson  
> I'm Yours – John Mraz  
> Little Things – One Direction  
> Drugstore – Stabbing Westward  
> Animal – Neon Trees  
> Morning Song – Jewel  
> Come On, Get Higher – Matt Nathanson


End file.
